


Glass and Mercury Filled

by shakeofftheclouds



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Delirium, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff without Plot, Hurt/Comfort, Influenza, Light Angst, Prom, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24508270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakeofftheclouds/pseuds/shakeofftheclouds
Summary: “Do you have a thermometer?” Betty asks.“Tympanic, oral, or rectal?”Despite her worries, Betty’s lips curl in amusement. “Jughead.”“Okay, it’s in the bathroom,” he relents.It doesn’t take her long to paw through the Joneses medicine cabinet. There’s slim pickings: a bottle of ipecac, a bottle of calamine lotion with some old calamine crusted on the sides, a few rusty razor blades. The thermometer is one of the old ones they don’t make anymore, glass and mercury filled. Betty wipes the dust off of it and returns to the bedroom.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 22
Kudos: 119





	Glass and Mercury Filled

**Author's Note:**

> Just felt like writing a fluffy Bughead sickfic. Placed in s4 timeline but three things make it canon divergent. Numero Uno, the trailer still exists and the Cooper-Jones household is not a thing. Sorry not sorry, I live in a trailer park. I'm 100% trailer trash, my walls shake whenever the wind goes over 10 mph, I have duct tape on my windows and stray cats in my driveway all the time. I'm literally offended they got rid of the Jones trailer and no, I will not be getting over it, thanks. Numero Dos, the B/A kiss didn't happen in The Episode That Shall Not Be Named. Numero Tres, Josie still exists. So glad the racism on the show is finally getting called out, because she always deserved better than what she got.

The gymnasium looks amazing, glittery cutout stars dangling from the ceiling among a sea of silver streamers. Metallic balloons tied to the bleachers and buffet tables. Dazzling backdrops pasted to the walls. Confetti and sequins crunch under Betty’s shoes as she walks, studded white flats that compliment her princess like periwinkle dress.

The gymnasium looks amazing but Betty can’t quite enjoy it. Not when Jughead is being so weird. He’d been aloof from the moment Betty answered the door. Didn’t greet her with a kiss like she would’ve hoped, barely pecked her cheek. 

She meant to ask him about it, but then the Lodge limo came rolling down the street, Veronica and Archie waving their hands through the window. Jughead was even quieter in the limo but Betty hadn’t thought much of that. She just figured the limo was a little much for him, with the fancy way it was decked out inside, Veronica and Archie already a bit buzzed from expensive bourbon and excitedly babbling away, gesturing widely and wildly in the limited space. 

Betty hoped her boyfriend would perk up once they were actually at the prom. But they’ve been here for over fifteen minutes and that doesn’t seem to be the case. Jughead’s barely spoken two words to her and it hasn’t even perused the food. That’s just not right. Betty’s never known Jughead not to make a beeline whenever there’s a buffet. 

“Is everything okay?” she asks quietly. 

Her boyfriend continues staring off into space. Doesn’t even seem to notice he’s been asked a question. 

“Jug?” Betty tugs lightly on his sleeve. 

“Sorry, what?” He turns to Betty, quietly clearing his throat. 

“What’s up with you?” she frowns. “You seem a little off tonight.” 

“I guess, uh,” he pauses, clearing his throat again. “The finality of everything is getting to me. This is our last school dance at Riverdale High.” 

“Oh,” Betty murmurs, nodding as something bittersweet rises in her chest. 

She’s ready to move on. To open the next chapter of her life. To celebrate her admittance to Yale and to focus on all the bright things ahead of her. Eager to make her way in the world beyond this town that’s done its best to break her down. But at the same time, she’s going to miss it. There’s a part of her already yearning for the comfortably familiar cushions in a booth at Pop’s she hasn’t yet lost. A part of her already missing the summers swimming carefree at Sweetwater River simply because she knows they’re all behind her now. 

Betty reaches for Jughead’s hand but before she can take it, he lurches away from her. He sort of stumbles and catches himself, swinging his elbow over his mouth to catch a short spate of dry, scratchy coughs. Betty frowns, rubbing his back through the stiff, starchy fabric of the tux. 

“Hey, you okay?” 

“Yeah, just gonna grab some punch.” 

Jughead hurries off. Betty glances down, idly toeing at some of the sequins there. She gets the sense that there’s more going on here than what he said. She looks again, watches from a distance as her boyfriend gulps down some punch. Loosens his tie and rubs at his throat. He fills a different paper cup after tossing out his own and heads back to Betty, holding it out. 

“Here, Betts.” 

“Thanks.” She takes the cup and sips, nose wrinkling in distaste. “Oh, Jug. You should’ve warned me it was spiked.” 

With rancid oil from Mantle Motors, going by the taste. Betty wasn’t as picky as Veronica when it came to drinks, but she did hold herself to standards above anything that tasted like it belonged inside a car more than it did inside a bar. 

“What?” Jughead blinks at her dubiously. 

Betty stares in disbelief. 

“You didn’t taste the…” 

She trails off, really taking in her boyfriend’s appearance. His posture. He’s leaning against the wall like he needs its support and he’s a tad tucked into himself, uncomfortable. A sheen of perspiration glistens on his face, something Betty hadn’t noticed under the multicolored flashing lights. Perhaps she’d missed it even earlier, back in the limo, where the blacklight above them had dyed everything an electric violet. 

Pursing her lips, she presses the inside of her wrist to his forehead. 

“How long have you had a fever?” 

“I don’t.” 

“You do.” 

“I didn’t know,” he mumbles unconvincingly. 

Betty drops her arm. “Well, how long have felt sick?”

“I don’t.” He gives a dismissive flap of the hand. 

“Jughead.” 

“Okay, it came on kinda fast this morning,” he admits with a guilty wince, “but I took some codeine my dad had leftover and I’m fine. Betty, really, I’m fine.” 

He’s trying to win her over with his cute little smirk but Betty can tell it’s strained. His eyes are tired and Betty is frustrated with herself for not noticing sooner. For getting so caught up in the glitter and glam of their Night In Paris themed prom she didn’t realize he was sick sooner. She cups her hands to his cheeks and shakes her head. 

“C’mon on, Jug, you’re burning up. When I pull my hands away they’re gonna have blisters. Let’s get out of here, okay? I’m gonna take you home.” 

“How?” he asks. “We rode with Veronica and Archie.” 

“Watch.” Betty pulls away and searches the crowd for gelled black hair and broad shoulders. 

Ah, there. By the bubble machine. 

Betty weaves her way through the bodies of students in formal wear to tap Reggie on the shoulder. He turns to her and grins.

“Oh, hey Cooper. Looking good.” 

“Thanks, Reg.” Betty looks down at herself, silently agreeing and mildly disappointed she’ll be dressing down soon. It took her longer to get ready than they’ve stayed at the actual dance, but oh well. Jughead is more important. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like a favor.” 

“Shoot.” 

“Can I borrow your car?” 

“What?” he scoffs. “No way. You look good, Cooper, but not that good.” 

“But do you know who does?” Betty nudges him, and nods in Josie’s direction. She looks every bit the future showstopper she is in a dazzling gold gown, with matching eyeshadow and gold lipstick that pops against her beautiful brown skin. Hair pulled up into a pretty, poofy updo sparkling with these hair accessories like tiny pearls. 

“Can’t argue there,” Reggie murmurs, lips parting in awe as he admires from afar. 

“Neither of you are here with dates,” Betty says nonchalantly. “So I’m sure Josie would give you a ride home if you needed one. And I think she’d be pretty impressed to hear you let a friend in need borrow your freshly waxed Mustang out of the kindness of your heart.” 

Reggie raises a brow, rubbing his chin as he hums in consideration. 

“My heart’s as gold as her dress,” he agrees eventually, winking at Betty as he reaches into his back pocket. He takes out his wallet and fishes a key from inside, dropping it into her waiting hand. “Don’t ride her too hard, Cooper.” 

Betty mentally barfs at the wording but thanks him anyway, and crosses the gym to get back to Jughead. 

“You never cease to amaze me,” he mumbles as Betty struts up dangling the key between her fingers. 

“I know. Let’s go.” 

She takes Jughead’s hand and tows him toward the exit, frowning at how clammy it feels in her grasp. Yeah, time to get him out of here. If Betty had known earlier, they never would’ve come. 

It’s not too hard to find Reggie’s car in the parking lot. No other teenager in backwater Riverdale has a 1967 Ford Mustang in excellent condition, red as maraschino cherry atop a milkshake and polished to such perfection, it reflects the moonlight like a beacon in dark. Betty lets go of Jughead’s hand to climb into the driver’s seat. He gets in beside her and looks to her with an apologetic frown. 

“I’m sorry for ruining prom.” 

“You didn’t ruin prom, Jughead.” Betty reaches over and gives his forearm a gentle squeeze of assurance. “It’s not your fault your sick.” 

“I can still tough it out, if you want to change your mind, Betty.” He swallows, features twitching like the action might be painful. “It’s our last school dance. I don’t feel too bad, it’s probably just a cold.” 

She’s pretty sure colds don’t come on this fast or hit this hard. Besides, even if it was just that, it’s not like she could have fun knowing he was feeling cruddy at all. It’ll also be more polite to the rest of the student body in case it’s contagious. 

“You’re more important than prom, Jug. And this is actually pretty cool.” Betty starts the engine, grinning at the thrum she feels beneath the seats. “Not you being sick— getting to drive Reggie’s baby. She purrs so nicely.” 

Jughead cracks a feeble smile. “You and cars.” 

“Ford is like the Quentin Tarantino of cars. This Mustang is my Pulp Fiction, Juggie, let me enjoy.” 

“What about the jalopy? Or my motorcycle?” 

“Iconic and sexy, respectively, but this is baby’s a classic.” 

Jughead laughs a little, but it turns into a cough. He keeps coughing for a bit as Betty navigators the school parking lot and turns into the road. Her concern deepens but she doesn’t say anything about it. She doesn’t say anything when she sees Jughead turn the heat on, either, even though it’s a balmy May evening. The furthest thing from cold outside. 

The car really does ride smoothly. By the time she pulls up to the Joneses trailer, she’s almost disappointed to take the key out of the ignition. She tucks it into her clutch for safe keeping and gets out of the car. 

Jughead follows suit, tilting his head. “You’re coming inside?” 

Betty gives him a bewildered look. “You think I’d leave you alone sick?” 

“It’s not like I’m incubating a zombie plague or something, Betty.” He pauses to cough into his elbow and it sounds so bad, it makes her wince. Definitely sounds like it could be the zombie plague. “It’s a cold.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“And my dad’ll be home eventually…” 

“I know he’s been working overtime since the last tape, Jug…wait, you don’t me here?” 

“It’s not that. I’m just worried I got my germs all over the trailer. Prom was one thing, I wasn’t gonna kiss you tonight and they had sanitizer on the buffet table, but in there,” Jughead pauses to swallow, clearing his throat once more and jerking his thumb toward the trailer. “I’ve touched and breathed on everything.” 

“I’ll wash my hands,” Betty promises. “I’m not worried.” 

“Okay,” Jughead agrees wearily. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you if you catch it.” 

They head up the steps together and go inside. Betty borrows a teeshirt and pair of thin, plaid lounge pants with a drawstring that pulls tight enough to keep on her hips. She admires her pretty, princess like reflection in the bathroom one last time before she takes it all off. Wets a towel and wipes the makeup off her face, changing into the borrowed clothes. They’re soft and worn and she gets a whiff of her boyfriend’s familiar scent as she pulls the teeshirt over her head. 

She folds her dress over her arm and wanders back to the kitchen, draping it neatly over the back of a chair. She slips back down the hall and pauses in the bedroom doorway, watching him throw on a thick gray long sleeve. She squints at his pajama pants dubiously. 

“Is that fleece?” 

“Yeah…wait, would you rather have the fleece ones, Betts?” 

“No, it’s way too warm for that.”

Jughead seems surprised. “It’s not cold in here to you?”

Betty shakes her head, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth and studying her boyfriend with concern. Now that they have decent, normal lighting, it’s easier for her to see just how bad he looks. 

Jughead’s eyes are glassy like his dad’s eyes used to be after one too many nights at the Whyte Worm. Perspiration plasters his hair to his forehead, droplets of sweat sprinkling his temples, around the narrow flare of his nostrils, above the cupid’s bow of his upper lip. He’s leaning again, this time against the dresser, like it’s too much to hold himself up. Looks wan and weak, white as a sheet under the sheen of all that sweat that reminds Betty of beads of oil simmering on a hot griddle. 

“Do you have a thermometer?” Betty asks. 

“Tympanic, oral, or rectal?” 

Despite her worries, Betty’s lips curl in amusement. “Jughead.” 

“Okay, it’s in the bathroom,” he relents.

It doesn’t take her long to paw through the Joneses medicine cabinet. There’s slim pickings: a bottle of ipecac, a bottle of calamine lotion with some old calamine crusted on the sides, a few rusty razor blades. The thermometer is one of the old ones they don’t make anymore, glass and mercury filled. Betty wipes the dust off of it and returns to the bedroom. 

Jughead sits on the edge of the bed and accepts it without resistance, but it isn’t under his tongue long enough to get a reading before he’s coughing again. He turns away from Betty, stuffing the spasm into his elbow. Betty gently rubs up and down his back, wincing at the way each cough seems to rip from his throat. It just sounds…painful. 

When he’s made it through, Betty wordlessly passes him the thermometer. He tucks the tip under his tongue for round two. She keeps rubbing his back as she watches the fluid creep higher and higher. When it seems like it’s crept as far as it’s going to, Betty peers at the thing and follows the markers with her thumb to make sure she’s reading it right. Plucks it from his mouth with her thumb over the place it’d stopped at just over 102°F, which doesn’t do much to assuage her worries. 

“Geez, Jug, that’s a little high.” 

“Maybe it’s wrong,” he mutters. “Thing’s really old, Betts.” 

“I don’t know. Maybe you should take more medicine?” 

“Finished off the codeine but there might be some Tylenol around.” 

Jughead starts to stand, hands braced against the mattress like he needs the help to push himself up. Betty puts a hand on his shoulder and urges him back down.

“I’ll get it,” she offers. “Where’s it at?’

“Uh.” He rubs at his temple, one of the tiny sweat beads dislodging and trickling downward. “Junk drawer in the kitchen, I think.” 

“Junk drawer under the microwave, or junk drawer under the coffee pot?” 

“I think the microwave one…maybe not.”

“Got it.” 

As soon as Betty stands, he starts coughing. The sound of it follows her down the hall and into the kitchen. As she tears apart the junk drawer, riffling through this and that, she listens to it continue on. Flips through rubber bands and outdated flyers. Old, coffee stained pocket bibles and some of Jellybean’s food shaped scented erasers. She doesn’t find the Tylenol so she searches the next drawer.

There’s a break in the coughing as she searches the junk drawer under the coffee pot. Betty pushes aside cracked boxes of thumb tacks and bits and bobs. Some lighters with naked women on them that are probably FP’s but could maybe be Gladys’s, she supposes. An old packet of sunflower seeds. And then, aha, the red blister pack of Tylenol hidden by some McDonalds napkins. 

Betty takes it and pursues the refrigerator to see if there’s any of the kind of fluids you’re supposed to drink when you’re sick. FreshAid or orange juice. Nope. Just a couple nearly, but not quite, empty liters of soda and a case of beer. Wait, beer!?

Betty does a double take, then reads the label. NA beer. Non-alcoholic. Okay. Still doesn’t seem like an ideal thing to give someone who isn’t feeling well, so she just fills a glass of tap water. 

Jughead’s already lying down when she goes back, cocooned in the comforter. He sits up when she enters, or tries to, anyway. The first attempt is not successful. His elbows quiver and he drops back to the mattress. It makes Betty’s stomach twist nervously, but he gets it on the second try, so she doesn’t mention it as she hands him the blister pack. He pops the capsules out, swallows them down with a few big gulps from the glass. 

“Do you want a refill?” 

Jughead blinks and for a few moments just stares at her, lips slightly parted. 

“Uh, Jug?” she sweeps the sweat damp hair off his forehead “Anybody home?” 

“Sorry, I heard you. I’m fine, thanks.” 

“Okay.” 

He’s still staring and Betty tilts her head, a bit unsure what to make of his glassy gaze. 

“What? Is there something on my face?” she asks softly. 

“No, it’s just…” Jughead stops, shaking his head a bit, “you have a halo.” 

“What?” Betty balks, a bit unnerved. 

“Must be the way the light’s hitting your hair, Betts.” He nods up to the ceiling. 

Betty glances up to the lightbulb in the ceiling, plating and wires exposed where a dome would normally cover it. The light is actually kind of dim and yellowy, Betty personally thinks it could stand to be replaced. 

“Makes you look like an angel.” 

That line’s so cheesy, Betty thinks she could’ve heard it on a soap opera. But the way he says it, sincere and hushed and hoarse in the quiet of the trailer where nothing else makes sound beyond the electricity humming, it actually makes Betty’s heartbeat quicken. She looks down at herself, dressed in her boyfriend’s lounge clothes, wrinkled as is and extra baggy on her smaller frame. She doesn’t exactly feel angelic. 

“Lie back down, okay?” she coaxes. “I think you’re a little delirious.” 

“M’not delirious,” he protests, but he lies down again anyway, 

Betty takes it upon herself to pull the comforter back up for him. Out of habit, she starts to crawl in, pauses when Jughead turns his face into the pillow to bury another flurry of coughs. She shifts back and when he raises his head again, he waves for her to go.

“Ugh, shit,” he croaks. “You probably wanna back up. Or go home. You know I’m not gonna be mad if you go home, right? I don’t want to give you my germs…” 

“I already told you, I’m gonna stay. At least until your dad gets back.” Betty lightly brushes the back of her hand over his cheek.

Jughead’s eyes fall shut and he nods, slowly. 

“Do you need anything else? Cold compress? Hot tea?” 

An eye cracks open and peeks up at her with a playful glint. 

“Never thought I’d have my very own Nurse Betty.” 

“Did you know my mom actually named me after that movie?” Betty crinkles her nose. “My mom actually named me after a movie about a traumatized lady who fugues out so hard she thinks she’s a character on a soap opera.” 

“Sounds like your mom’s style.” 

“And she wonders why we have issues. But seriously, do you need anything?” 

“Nah, Betty, I’m okay.” 

“Alright. I’m not going home, I’ll probably just crash on your couch. But call me if you need something, okay?” 

“What did I do to deserve you?” 

Betty bows and gingerly brushes her lips over his forehead. The skin burns like melting candle wax under her mouth. When she pulls back, she can taste a hit of salt from the perspiration. 

* * *

  
Betty isn’t sure when she dozes off on the couch, an aged, battered Baxter Boys novel in her hand. She only knows that at some point she had, because the book is on the floor now and there’s a bit of dried drool on the pillow under her cheek. Betty sits up and wipes the crusty corner of her mouth, trying to figure out what woke her up. 

After a moment, she realizes it’s storming. Thunder rolls beyond the the trailer’s thin walls. Torrents of rain pound heavily against the roof above her head. She figures this is what woke her up then stops, realizing she hears something else, something more concerning. More coughing but it’s different than earlier, harsher, wetter, and then the squeamish noises of throwing up. 

Betty stands up, throw blanket slipping off her legs. She picks it up and drapes it around her shoulders, wearing it like a cape as she slinks down the hall. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, yellow light spilling out beneath it. Through the crack, she can see Jughead hunched over the dun ceramic. She quickly glances away to give him privacy as he throws up again. Waits until the toilet flushes to rap her knuckles against the door. 

“I’m coming in, okay?” 

She opens the door wide enough to step inside. Jughead glances up, eyes glazed with exhaustion, his head cocked against the edge of the toilet bowl. He’s still sweating profusely, hair sticking to his face, febrile flush splotching his cheeks. The neckline of his shirt is soaked through with perspiration and still, he’s shivering. 

Betty frowns as she kneels across from him. 

“That’s not really a sanitary pillow, Jug,” she jokes weakly. 

“Neither’s the one in the bunker,” he quips, corner of his lips quirking up in spite of his obvious discomfort. 

Betty makes a face. “We really should change the bedding out down there.” 

Jughead’s scoff turns into a cough and he clamps a hand over his mouth to shield Betty from the germs. He goes through a rough round of them that sound so bad, it has her wincing in sympathy. She chews her lip, rubbing his shoulder as he rides it out. 

“Sorry,” he mutters at the end of it. 

“No, stop.” Betty gently cradles his face in her hands, worry washing over her as his cheeks broil against the skin of her palms. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re done throwing up, right?” 

Jughead nods. 

Betty rises and grabs him the bottle of amber mouthwash from the sink. She passes it down it Jughead. He removes his cheek from the toilet bowl and sits up straighter, working the cap off with shivery fingers. He rinses his mouth out and spits it back into the toilet bowl. Screws the cap back in place before bracing a hand against the shallow rim of the bathtub as he pushes himself up to a stand. Betty hovers, ready to be a supporting pillar. 

Jughead looks relieved at her offered shoulder and they plod back to the bedroom together. Jughead collapses like a poorly made tent at Camp Bolling, the old springs grinding under his sudden weight. It triggers another bout of coughing he aims opposite of Betty as she crawls onto the mattress. 

“You should go back to the couch,” he mumbles. 

“No,” Betty murmurs, crawling closer and sitting with her legs folded. “Put your head in my lap.” 

Jughead obliges tiredly, nestling his head against her thigh. 

“I’m not worried about your germs, Jug. Just you. I’ve never really seen you sick before,” Betty says softly, surfing her fingers through the waves in his sweaty hair. Sure, they’d swapped the sniffles a few times back when they were little kids, but this is different. Whatever this is has knocked Jughead off his feet and maybe he’s even somewhat delirious. Seems out of it enough that she’s suspect. 

“Probably cause I caught just about everything there is to catch when I was homeless. M’immune to everything now.” 

If Betty didn’t think he was delirious before, she’s sure of it now. 

Jughead never talks about that time of his life. Never. While Betty tried to get it out of him once upon a time, she’d given up when it became clear it was something uncomfortable he didn’t want to revisit. And she’d become okay with that, come to respect his right to privacy and accept there were certain things about her boyfriend she’d never know and that these things were worth not knowing if they meant digging up dreaded memories. 

“Apparently not everything,” she sighs as he begins coughing again, hand cupped over his mouth. He sits up from her lap in what she thinks is an attempt to make it stop, but it doesn’t. 

He just keeps coughing, so Betty slides her legs over the side of the mattress and tugs a pillow into place where her lap was. 

“Gonna get you some more water, okay?” 

Jughead nods at her, still in the thick of the fit. Betty pads down to the bathroom and refills the cup under the faucet. When she gets back, he’s finally made his way through to the other end and props himself up to take the glass. He gulps over half of it down and then sinks back to the bed, mattress springs quietly creaking. 

Betty reaches down and palms at his forehead, frowning at the roasting heat she finds. The Tylenol definitely hasn’t done shit. Maybe it was expired. 

“It’s raining outside, right?” he asks suddenly. 

As if on cue, the thunder rolls in the distance and Betty nods her head. 

“I don’t really like the rain anymore,” he rasps out, and Betty can’t quite tell if he’s looking at her or past her. 

“What?” 

“I liked it so much when we were kids. Me, you, and Archie splashing around in puddles. Catching frogs. Dueling with our umbrellas. You remember that?” 

“Oh yeah, I remember.” She tucks a sodden lock of hair behind his ear, flips her hand to lay the back of it to his too hot cheek. 

“Of course I liked the rain. Creepy weirdo loner kids always dig the dark and stormy nights.” 

“You were never creepy, Jughead…” 

“Maybe not to you guys.” He smiles wanly but it slowly fades as he shakes his head. “I tried to like the rain again, Betts, but I can’t. I just can’t.” 

“Shh, it’s okay.” Betty doesn’t really understand what he’s babbling about, if she didn’t think he was delirious before, she’s sure of it now. She seats herself on the bed and begins stroking his hair again, in an effort to soothe. 

“Dark and stormy nights aren’t as fun when you have to sleep in them.” 

Betty halts. Jughead blearily blinks up at her, tongue flicking over his lips. 

“It leaked even at the drive-in, and the wind always cut through the walls. But it was luxury compared to no shelter at all. I took my bag, you know, it’s not like I had just one pair of clothes. So if what I was wearing got soaked, I would try to change into something dry— drier, anyway. It’s not like my bag was impervious to water…” 

Betty swallows hard as she realizes the she is being told. 

“…but if it was one of those storms where it rains all night, there was no point. It was freezing at night, if I wasn’t already sick, I’d just get sicker. My clothes would be damp for days after, but my shoes really got soaked, cause I only had one pair of those. They never dried unless it was summer. Everything dried pretty good in the summer.” 

“Oh my god, Jug,” Betty gasps, horror creeping up her spine. 

“You remember that one storm a few years back? The power went out and the HoZone got stuck by lightning?” 

“Yeah,” she says quietly, rhythmically carding her hand through his hair. “They had to get a new sign. And my mom petitioned against it, because she thought the neon stripper was way too vulgar, even though it was just a silhouette.” 

“I had an ear infection then. So bad I scared I was gonna lose half my hearing.” Jughead shudders as he gives his left lobe a little tug. “Put my headphones on, couldn’t hear anything on this side. Felt like my eardrum was packed with cement mix, or tar, or super thick glue. When it finally ruptured, it hurt like crazy but I was relieved. The pressure was finally gone, I could hear out of it again.” 

Betty’s fingers freeze in her boyfriend’s hair as something daunting dawns on her. She’d never even realized it was something she noticed, but indeed she has. If she’s coming up on Jughead’s left, she usually has to call his name a couple times to get his attention. If she’s coming up on his right, he usually turns first, at the sound of her footsteps. In light of what he’s just told her, it makes her stomach churn. 

Betty wonders if she’s looking too much into it. If her observations are mistaken, or else misplaced. If there is any damage, or if it even actually came from that if there is, it’s minimal compared to what he was afraid of. But even so, she wonders if Jughead knows. She wonders if maybe she should tell him, but then his clammy fingers wrap around her wrist and he’s peering up at her, almost anxiously, babbling again. 

“So I don’t, okay? I can’t— I can’t like the rain anymore. I’m sorry and I’m sorry about the prom too.” 

“Oh, Jug, again, stop with the apologies. No one’s asking you to do anything. Everything’s fine.” Betty smiles to cover her concern and bends, tenderly kissing his forehead.

She feels the tension ease from his brow beneath her lips and skims more kisses over temples, his cheeks, caring much more about keeping Jughead comfortable than his potential to be contagious. 

“If you’re feeling better tomorrow, I’ll just put my dress back on and we can dance in the living room or something. It’s not a big deal.” 

The idea seems to soothe him, even though Betty’s near positive he won’t be getting out of bed tomorrow at all. She imagines her own tomorrow will be spent taking care of him and that’s perfectly fine with her. She plans to do a damn good job of it. Maybe even good enough to make up for all the times nobody else did. 

“Betty?” 

“Hmm?” 

Jughead’s clammy hand slides down to hers and he loosely laces their fingers together. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too. Try to get some sleep.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Been a long time since I've written fanfic, I'm rusty. Hopefully it doesn't show too bad. Also I feel like we don't talk about Jughead being homeless enough? Apparently it was a thing for awhile, if he was living under the docks for a period of time and long enough to become familiar with its other inhabitants.


End file.
